


One Man's Demon

by Macx



Series: Gray Areas [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Being an Asshole, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-15
Updated: 2005-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...Is Another One's Angel. Crowley has a very, very bad day and takes it out on Aziraphale, nearly destroying their relationship in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man's Demon

If there was one thing Crowley knew, it was how to get drunk. Really, really drunk. Bloody stupid drunk. Piss-pour drunk. All of the above and then some.

The flat looked like a liquor store, it smelled like a cheap pub and its sole occupant put all drunkards to shame. A week of non-stop alcohol intake would do that to a room. Even to a whole flat. And the occupant.

Crowley didn't care.

The more alcohol the better.

But even the worst stupor didn't let him forget the week before – or the moment when he had probably forever ended what had taken six millennia to grow.

Thoughts of Aziraphale, of the shocked blue eyes turning to cold stone, of the gentle face closing up and the divine anger rising, floated through his alcohol poisoned mind and Crowley finished off the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

From the taste of it, it was cheaper than cheap. It was more like vinegar than anything else. But he didn't mind. The volume counted, not the taste. He had lost his taste buds long before reaching the first state of total intoxication.

Sobering up only let him remember everything, so he just continued to stay drunk, not going through withdrawal or hangovers. Being drunk was good. Really, really good.

I screwed up. Completely and utterly. Destroyed it all in a single moment of thoughtlessness… of rage. Of giving in to the disgusting thing I am.

The week had started out well – for all of an hour after breakfast, which had been nice and familiar with Aziraphale making toast and Crowley watching his angel. While Aziraphale had decided to open the bookshop, Crowley had given in to his inner voice to get out and do some demonic things.

It had been a mistake.

The demon groaned into his pillow, trying to bury into it and hide from the world.

Tripping a kid running through the streets had been his first good idea. The teenager, no older than maybe sixteen, had been racing down the lively road and Crowley had used a little power to make him stumble over his own two feet and sprawl onto the sidewalk. Feeling pleased with his bad deed, Crowley had been about to look for something bigger when two policemen had grabbed the kid and arrested him. Apparently he had been stealing and had been on the run from them.

The demon had muttered in disgust and chosen a new target. Everyone could make a mistake. How could he have known the little creep had stolen something? Now he had not only stopped a thief, nullifying a bad deed, his own demonic intervention had turned into something good.

Even now it made him shudder and Crowley blindly reached for a half empty bottle of red wine. It was empty not much later.

Then had come the ATM incident. Choking up the machine had seemed like a really good idea, frustrating customers of this particular bank, but it had backfired. The last customer using it, the one who had apparently caused the malfunction had used a fake card and again the police had come, arresting him.

Another good deed.

Crowley had felt like throwing up.

To make it much worse, the choked up ATM had also prevented false money from being spread.

Kicking at an empty can, he had scared a cat by the stupid name of Nicodemus and subsequently saved it from being squashed to death by a falling flower pot, though the plant had died in the process. The cat, to his utter disbelief, had jumped straight into his arms with a yowl of fright. An elderly lady had come running toward him, babbling about how thankful she was that her 'baby' was fine, then had hugged the living daylights out of him.

The cat had been white. And the hair had stuck insistently to his black clothes. Crowley had plucked helplessly at the cat hair, but to no avail. Even miracling didn't help.

Thrice-blessed cat!

When he had inspected his clothes, he had discovered cat claw shaped holes in his black pants and his leather jacket where the cat had clung to him.

To add to the humiliation that was by now already unbearable, he had prevented a multi-car accident when he had manipulated a public bus from pulling away from a bus stop due to engine failure. It would have hit a speeding driver who hadn't looked neither left nor right, but now everyone was saved and only a bit of high blood pressure was the result.

Crowley had quickly fled the scene, heading home or to the book store, whatever he found first. In his state of mind, he wasn't so sure.

As it was, the good deeds hadn't stopped there and whenever he had taken his anger out on something, something positive had been the end result.

By the time he had arrived at Aziraphale's shop, he had been fuming mad. Eyes glowing red behind the sunglasses he had slammed the door open, the door bell tingling alarmingly, waking a customer out of his stupor as he browsed the considerable amount of ancient volumes. The man had shot his watch a surprised look, muttering 'Oh dear, almost too late', making the bad day the worst Crowley could think of.

But it got worse.

Groaning to himself, claws puncturing his pillow with the automatic reaction to those memories, Crowley wanted to simply sink into a convenient hole in the floor. Preferably one not connected to Below. He felt bad enough already; he didn't need the added heat.

Aziraphale had been his usual self, the mild frown on his face telling Crowley that he wasn't amused about his entrance, but the demon had been so far from amused himself, he barely remembered the spelling. Actually, he had been so far from his usual self, he had gone and done it: he had alienated his angel.

It wasn't really easy to, either. Aziraphale had known him for six millennia, had taken a lot of verbal abuse, bad jokes and mood swings. He knew Crowley, could handle the demon, and he held up to him when they verbally sparred. Crowley remembered many a personal remark, either about angels, Above or even Aziraphale, but none had ever really hurt the angel. Never had the outbreaks become this personal. Never had Crowley wanted to inflict pain so much with scathing words and acidy remarks.

And he had inflicted pain. Badly. So very, very badly. He had accused Aziraphale of being responsible, of influencing him, of manipulating him… of setting him up with his declarations of love to make him into a do-gooder. He had hissed and snapped at the stunned being, digging deeper and deeper into the open wound. Aziraphale was Crowley's scapegoat for this terrible day, and all blame was on him. Everything. Every – little – thing.

The miserable form on the bed gave the pillow its death blow, feathers fluffing up around him. Bleary eyes watched the white downs settled on his black and red sheets.

White feathers.

Like his angel's.

"Zira," he mumbled painfully, even the single word more slurred than really understandable.

He was so pathetic. So utterly pathetic and a disgrace to everyone. For Below he was nothing but a bottom-rung demon. He had done a great job, had had great successes, but nothing had changed his status. And Above had kicked him out over an apple-related incident.

Crowley felt totally alone. It wasn't a feeling he was used to, having been around Aziraphale for so long; quite intimately close lately. Demons were solitary creatures by nature, but Crowley had never really fit in. He had hung around with the wrong crowd, had made a mistake, and he had paid for it. Not just a prison sentence, no. A life-sentence.

Sure, he had never really been angel material, but he wasn't demon material either. He was somewhere in-between.

Just like Aziraphale.

Thinking of his angel hurt and he swallowed dryly, clinging to the ravaged pillow. His eyes were on the white downs and he touched one with a trembling finger.

He had fallen in love with a divine creature, an angel. Now he was paying for it. Aziraphale hadn't Fallen for truly loving a demon, but the demon had messed it up anyway and destroyed it all. Crowley had no idea if a fallen angel could fall even deeper, but if he could, Crowley was the first to attempt it.

But he hadn't really meant it! It had been his temper, his anger, his rage, his frustration talking.

Still, Aziraphale had thrown him out. The look in his eyes had been bad enough, but the righteous anger radiating from him, the halo burning so bright that Crowley's eyes still hurt – well, right now it could be the alcohol, too – all that had stabbed at him. The moment he had been out on the street, Crowley had known he had made a tremendous mistake.

He had torn apart what had bound them together.

He had savagely attacked the only good thing in his life.

Just because of a bad day.

He had lost Aziraphale as a lover, and also as a friend.

Crowley was alone.

He had turned to alcohol, had unplugged the phone, locked the door, snarled at the plants, and gone about drinking himself into an early grave; whatever good that did when it came to immortal beings was anyone's guess.

The first time he had sobered up he had immediately refilled because the pain was so bad. The second time he hadn't even dared to sober up completely, and after that he had stopped altogether.

The bad dreams didn't help either. He couldn't remember them, only the emotions they left him with, and those warranted more alcohol.

He was a miserable bastard; he was a demon. Nothing else was expected of him.

Then why did it hurt so much?

He had done what was expected of him, aside from outright physically removing an angel from Earth, but since when did he do what the ugly bastards Below delighted in?

He had tormented Aziraphale and it would get him bonus points, but who cared? He sure didn't and ever since the Near-Apocalypse he had fallen off their radar anyway. No one gave a flying bloody shit about him any more. The same went for Aziraphale.

Crowley screwed his eyes shut as something inside him cracked with the pain he felt.

He lo…nngh… gah! Even drunk he couldn't confess it to himself. He needed Aziraphale, that much was true. He had needed him for so long. Their physical relationship had been the almost logical conclusion to six millennia of friendship. Well, not a full six, more like a five-nine, take a century here or there. He had tried to do his demonic best in the beginning, but Aziraphale had been irresistable in his so strangely non-angelic ways now and then. Adorable, even.

Crowley made a choking noise into the ruins of his pillow.

His adorable, sweet, so very powerful and loving angel.

And he had gone and destroyed them. Utterly. Completely. Everything down the drain.

Because of some stupid, no good, bloody useless day where Murphy's Law had decided to stick with a demon and make all his mischief result in good deeds.

Morosely staring at nothing, he drifted off again, the alcohol letting him slide into the horrors of his own mind that consisted of never-ending reruns of their last argument, and Aziraphale's expression.

It was over.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale had spent a truly bad week at his bookshop, listlessly selling his usually so treasured and beloved books to whoever asked to buy them. He didn't really care. Well, he did to a degree, making sure they came into good homes, but he did sell them – for a good amount of money, of course.

The argument with Crowley was running through his mind again and again, the scathing words hurting him, making him miserable. The wretched feelings didn't go away, even if he tried to argue with his hurting inner self that he should have expected as much from a demon, but this was Crowley they were talking about. Crowley!

Not just any run-of-the-mill demon, but a demon he had known for so long, who he had always, though not openly, called a friend and later become more of.

Crowley had never been that bad, even on his worst day, and after two days of feeling a very un-divine anger, Aziraphale had mulled over the heated, hurtful words.

He remembered Crowley's red eyes, clear signs of his stress. Glowing red, fiery and so filled with rage, Aziraphale had felt pain by just looking at his counterpart. Then there had been the aura. Crowley had radiated fury; pure and untamed fury. Finally, the words. He had accused the angel of making him do good things.

Aziraphale had puzzled over that particular remark another day, his own anger slowly making way for shame at his actions and confusion as to Crowley's motives. He had never truly tried to make his demon good. That wouldn't be Crowley. He hadn't fallen in love with a heavenly creature; he was badly in love with a fallen angel who had as many bad sides as he had good ones. Crowley wasn't evil, but he was bad. He wasn't a hellish fiend, just a bastard. He caused trouble, but it was in his job description.

So after almost a week, Aziraphale stood in front of the flat's door, ringing the bell, knocking, calling, but nothing came of it. Crowley was home, he could feel it, but he wouldn't answer.

After a moment's hesitation, Aziraphale did the impolite thing. He miracled the door open with a wave of the hand, and he entered.

The smell hit him first. It almost gagged him and his senses reeled at the toxic air. It smelled like someone had shot up a liquor store, leaving the liquid to soak into every little crack. There were bottles everywhere, some broken, some turned over, but all empty. He walked past them, careful not to trip, and entered the bedroom where he could feel Crowley's presence.

"Oh dear," the angel whispered in shock, quickly followed by compassion.

Crowley was out like a light, residing in a terribly tossed bed with a ripped pillow that he was holding on to for dear life, as it seemed. His sunglasses were on the floor, crushed. He was dressed in faded jeans that usually made Aziraphale want to touch him a lot and run his hands up and down those nicely wrapped thighs, and a black t-shirt. The hair was in total disarray.

And his face…

Aziraphale swallowed.

Crowley looked utterly wretched, so completely sad and in pain and alone…

"Oh dear," he whispered again, coming closer.

Bottles clinked as he brushed by. With an almost thoughtless wave of the hand he made them disappear. The windows opened as if in an afterthought and fresh air came in.

The angel reached out and touched the demon, feeling wave upon wave of self-loathing and deep pain radiating off the curled up form.

"Crowley," he whispered, running a thumb over the pale, too dry skin.

There was a soft whimper and suddenly the eyes blinked open. A normal human would have blood-shot ones, but Crowley's were reptilian and lacked the whites. Still, he gave a good impression of it and there was a definite glaze. Aziraphale smiled at the confusion in them, continuing his caress.

"Zira?" came a dull mumble.

"Yes, it's me."

"Go 'way."

"No."

There was a brief, really, really brief, flare, then the yellow eyes slid shut. "Why're y'ere?"

"I was worried."

"'S nothin' t'worry 'bout."

"I think there is. I'm worried about you, Crowley."

"Don't. 'S over."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Aziraphale settled on the mattress, one hand still caressing his lover. "Why?"

"Said so," was the dejected answer.

"Do you want it to be over?"

There was a dry swallowing sound. "'M a bastard. 'S all I can be. Hurtin' you. Always hurtin' you."

"Yes, true, you are a bastard, but you're a demon, Crowley. I expect you to be a bastard."

There was a soft moan and Crowley seemed to try and bury himself deeper in the unmade bed, hiding. Aziraphale waited, running gentle fingers along the short hair at Crowley's neck.

"You're a demon. My demon and my bastard. I love you," the angel finally said. "Nothing can change that. And whatever made you say those things, I realize you didn't mean them. You had a bad day."

There was another groan. "Can't love me."

"Why not?"

"Hurtin' you."

"You didn't hurt me. I was a bit… out of sorts, granted." Aziraphale sighed, tugging gently at some downy soft hair, seeing goose bumps rise on the smooth skin. "I didn't understand why, Crowley. Want to tell me what launched this outbreak?"

"Nmpf."

"You blamed me for it, so I think it only fair to ask what I am to blame for and why."

"Nngh."

"Dear? Please…?"

After a long moment of silence, Crowley made an effort to sober up and Aziraphale looked into less intoxicated eyes, but the same pain resided deep within. There was so much hope there, too. So much hope and desperation and emotions Crowley feared to say out loud, but he did anyway, though he never actually spoke the three little words. The angel had never minded.

"Please, Crowley," the angel whispered. "Please tell me."

And finally he talked. Aziraphale listened to the account of Crowley's day, to his misery and torment of doing good things while trying to cause trouble. He smiled a little at the tone of voice, but he didn't outright laude him for his good work. He knew he would be in the same state of mind, minus the utter inebriation or the rage, if he had suffered something similar. Thinking of his good deeds turning into trouble made the angel shiver a little.

"What if it's permanent?" Crowley moaned, unconsciously moving closer to Aziraphale. "What if you really rubbed off, if I'm tainted with goodness?" He shivered. "I can't be, angel. I just can't be!"

"I already did rub off on you, my dear. We changed each other. Neither one of us really fits the category any more."

Horror crossed the narrow features and Aziraphale shushed him gently.

"But I believe it was just a bad day for you, Crowley."

"Really?" So much hope; like a little kid.

"Really. We can go out tomorrow and I'll be there."

The hope was there ten-fold now and Aziraphale smiled more.

"Thanks," Crowley whispered.

"You're welcome."

There was a prolonged silence and Aziraphale almost felt Crowley fight with his inner voice.

"Angel, I'm so… ngh… I want to… " He inhaled deeply. "I didn't mean it," he then blurted. "I didn't want to say what I did. Well, I did, but not what I said. I mean…"

Aziraphale placed a well-manicured finger on his lips. "I know. You hurt me, but I realize now where it came from."

"You don't hate me?"

Aziraphale felt his heart constrict at the plaintive words. "No. I could never hate you. Angels don't know hatred."

Crowley's eyes were on him, very open and deep. "You do," he finally murmured. "Because I know lo… gssss…nnng…" He stopped screwing those beautiful eyes shut and clenching his hands into the cover. "Well, I do," he mumbled. "So you do, too. Know hatred, that is. Well, kinda anyway. Like I kinda know… the other stuff."

Aziraphale contemplated the words and was mildly shocked to realize that yes, he did know hatred. He had hated Crowley for a second or two after the encounter a week ago. But only for a second. It hadn't felt right.

"I don't hate you," he repeated, still playing with the dark hair. "I felt unkindly for a while, but I could never hate you, my dear."

Silence descended and Aziraphale noticed how close Crowley had snuggled up to him, but he was still tense, expecting the worst. Leaning down he breathed a kiss against one temple. Crowley turned his head and their lips brushed together, blue eyes meeting yellow ones.

Aziraphale smiled lovingly, finger-combing the unruly hair. "You should sleep. You're a mess, dear," he whispered.

"Will you stay?"

"As long as you want."

"How does forever sound?" Crowley asked tentatively.

The angel's smile grew wider, warmer. "Forever sounds good."

 

* * *

 

Crowley had no idea what he had done to deserve someone like Aziraphale. But here he was, his angel, his lover, and he was with him in his bed. A freshly made bed, in a freshly aired room, with no more alcohol bottles littering the floor. Looking at the smooth features, the slightly wavy, dark blond hair falling into his eyes, Crowley couldn't keep himself from touching him. He flicked the strands out of his lover's face, then drew a gentle finger along the handsome lines of the angel's face.

Blue eyes blinked open, filled with sleepy warmth, angelic gentleness and love. Crowley swallowed, the finger stilling as he was sucked into the blueness.

Their lips met without him even consciously thinking of it and the ensuing kiss was intimate and gentle and slightly hotter than probably intended. Clever fingers slid under his skin-tight black t-shirt, brushing over warm skin that had been neglected for a whole week. He had gone through angel withdrawal of the worst kind, had resigned himself to a life without this. Without his angel.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale inquired.

"It's nothing," he whispered, kissing along the angel's neck.

There was a moment of silence, then the blue eyes captured him again, held him in their depth.

"I missed you," Aziraphale said out loud what Crowley had been thinking.

The demon swallowed hard. "Zira, I…"

"I know."

He wanted so badly to say it, but millennia of denying softer emotions that didn't fit a demon made it close to impossible.

I don't want to lose you. I love you. I need you.

Aziraphale smiled more, the gentle waves of the divine aura caressing his skin. It didn't hurt, wasn't even uncomfortable. Crowley swallowed, his thoughts of before coming back. They were influencing each other, had grown accustomed to things others of their kind might writhe in pain over; or get really, really sick in a very undignifying way. But not them.

"Angel…" he murmured, pulling him close.

I love you.

And then they were skin on skin, hungry lips meeting in absolving, loving kisses. Crowley groaned, felt the demon inside him react to the soul-deep emotions, felt the need and craving rise. He growled softly as he straddled his lover, proceeding to nibble, lick and kiss a path over the smooth chest to the fluttering stomach and deeper.

Aziraphale gasped softly, crying out as he left a bite mark at one creamy hip, and it was music in Crowley's ears.

Love you. Love you so much. Please feel it. I can't say the words, but please understand it. I love you, Zira. And I need you.

If the intensity of their love-making was any indication, the feelings and thoughts were picked up and answered with the same fervor. Crowley came hard inside his lover, took his angel over the edge with him and was caught as they fell. Warm arms surrounded him, a safety net he had never thought he needed but always had relied on, and the aura of his angel was warm and gentle as it brushed over his darker one.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale had accompanied Crowley as promised. It was a sunny Thursday afternoon and the streets were full of people. Both men walked side by side, unnoticed by the other pedestrians or the drivers on the roads. Crowley looked slightly nervous, something that really didn't befit a demon, and Aziraphale touched his hand, brushing their fingers against each other.

"It'll be all right, dear."

Crowley muttered something under his breath and finally chose a target. Aziraphale stood back, watching like a parent would a child on its first solo ride on a new bicycle. Within moments trouble unfolded as a skateboarding kid lost his balance and crashed into a fruit vendor's cart, apples, oranges, pears and lemons spilling out onto the street. Cars breaked and there was a small crash further back, but no one was seriously harmed.

Aziraphale couldn't help but heal a few bruises and a mild concussion. It was just in his nature.

But nothing else happened.

Crowley stood there, stiff, awaiting a good deed to come out of his trouble-making, but nothing occurred. The kid was being yelled at while he rubbed his head. Drivers were hitting their horns, the blaring almost deafening, and some of the onlookers or passers-by stole fruit lying around.

A slow, satisfied smile crossed the demon's features and even Aziraphale's healing stint didn't put him down. He grabbed the angel around the waist and kissed him sloppily but with fervor.

"It worked!" Crowley exclaimed, the sunglasses askew and showing delighted snake eyes. He was fairly bouncing on the spot. "Nothing happened!"

"I beg to differ," Aziraphale pointed out. "Something did happen."

"But nothing good!"

The angel chuckled. Crowley hadn't relinquished his hold just yet and Aziraphale enjoyed the intimate moment while around them people tried to help or take advantage of the situation. Almost as a side note, Aziraphale kept a baby from being separated from his mother in the commotion, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Crowley.

"I can't help it," the angel mumbled.

"That's my angel," Crowley whispered and bit one ear lobe lightly, making Aziraphale shiver. "Can I have a go at another one?"

He nearly laughed. It sounded like a child asking his parent for another ride on the merry-go-round.

"Have you been a good little demon lately?" Aziraphale couldn't help but tease.

It earned him a glare over the rims of the sunglasses, yellow eyes flashing. "Watch it, angel. Fine line here. Very fine line."

He soothed him with a caress. "You know how they say that the third time's the charm?"

Crowley's face seemed to lighten up immediately. His spirit lifted and he beamed in a very un-demonic way.

"Zira?" he queried as if to make sure.

"Yes?"

"You mean…?"

Aziraphale gave him an innocent look. "I said nothing, my dear. Let's take a walk. It's getting crowded here."

Crowley tried to hide his excitement, but he was failing badly. Aziraphale just smiled, pleased. It wasn't that he was actively encouraging a demon to cause trouble; that would be totally against the Law. He was just accompanying him, keeping an eye on things, balancing Good and Evil. And he was doing a good deed by making Crowley happy. That accounted for something. It made perfect sense.

Well, that was one of his rules. They had lived by their own for so long, with the Arrangement in place and working so well together, he couldn't act any other way. Maybe they were abnormal, maybe forgotten or outcast, but it was a life he was accustomed to. It was his life and Crowley's life, and it was their life. He had fought Armageddon to keep it, and he had won not only a small battle but also a War. And he had won Crowley.

Watching his lover, his demon, test his newfound confidence in trouble-making, Aziraphale felt content. They ended up in St. James Park, sitting on a bench, as close together as was physically possible. Crowley's shades were planted firmly on his nose, hiding his sparkling eyes, but Aziraphale felt the happiness nevertheless. Happy demon. He chuckled and wrapped an arm around the being he loved.

Neither paid any mind to any of the people passing them by, looking at the picture of perfect contentment of two lovers. But everyone who did walk through the park that day returned home feeling indescribably happy.


End file.
